Turning Back
by Drassil
Summary: Haunted by the destruction of the Knightmare Boarding School library years ago, its former librarian learns a secret that could allow him to rewrite the past - or perhaps to write it. Adapted from my posts on the Knightmare Roleplay Forum.
1. The Only Way?

Callimpsest stands outside the Wolf's Howl Inn. He sees a pair of twins. One has a kindly face, the other's is locked into a thunderous scowl. Each twin has a gold band spinning at his waist (known elsewhere as hula hoops), apparently by telekinesis.

"Who invited you?" demands the Scowling Twin in a tone to match. "You can't have a go with my hoop."

"Not to worry," Callimpsest reples, "I do n-"

The Kindly Twin speaks. "Hello, nice to meet you. You're welcome to have a go with my hoop."

"Thank you, but I-"

"Don't go getting any ideas, this hoop is MINE," growls Scowling.

"Don't worry about him, if you'd like a go with mine just say so," smiles Kindly.

"That's very decent of you, but I-"

Scowling interrupts again. "Still here? You're not having a turn with my hoop, so don't even think about it."

The twins carry on like this, getting ever louder. They are not listening to Callimpsest. He is growing anxious.

"Please, stop this."

The twins are advancing. As he tries to flee, Callimpsest drops the book he was holding: an early, cherished copy of the _Knightmare Lexicon_, known affectionately to Callimpsest as Lex. Before he can pick it up, he has stumbled backwards and the twins are trampling it.

"No..."

Callimpsest is struggling to breathe. And still they are chattering about having a go, or not having a go, with their hoops.

"I, I, PLEASE..."

"Just one go, you'll master it in no time!"

"I don't wanna go!"

Callimpsest wakes up screaming. He stares at the ceiling under a cold film of sweat. Then he leans an arm out of bed and sends his hand scuttling around the floor. It comes to rest on a familiar volume, and sends relief back up the arm to its owner.

"Lex! I've still got Lex. Good."

Callimpsest sinks back into his pillow and is soon asleep again. He was not awake for long enough to wonder how the investigation of the mysterious floating brick outside, from which he departed some hours earlier, turned out.

But when he awakes the following morning, it's the first thing on his mind. He is alarmed to learn how many of his fellow investigators are missing. Of those who aren't, he tries to raise Dreslin, but cannot; he finds Zeytan and joins him on a search party, but nothing further is learned. The remnants of the brick have been removed, by Hordriss some say. The two scholars do at least conclude that whoever or whatever escaped the brick was benign, and will not be harming those who freed it. There is little left to do but wait.

Callimpsest withdraws into his own company - something that comes all too naturally to him - and having spent time with Zeytan, a Knightmare Boarding School colleague that never was, he is drawn yet again into thinking about KMBS, and what never was: the school library, living long, living in peace, keeping him green with life force into his old - well, older - age. But because of a moment's violence, a moment's poison, this cannot be. Another day ends and Callimpsest sinks back into bed, feeling like the only person anywhere that cares.

Tonight, the school is in his dreams. He wants to enter, to make for the library, but as always he cannot. He drifts across the central courtyard towards the Tin Child, the school's steadfast statue and mascot. He hears a cry for help. He sees a hooded figure trapped in a set of stocks. They are fading from view. Callimpsest rushes over - hurrying while stocks last - and manages to grasp and open the stocks before they disappear. Becoming whole, the man stands up and lowers his hood. Callimpsest's eyes widen at the sight of Merlin.

"Ah, team!"

"Sir, there's no team in I. Callimachus of the Palimpsest is my name."

"Ah yes! I can call you Callimpsest, can't I?"

"I'm honoured by your presence. I've read accounts of your visits to the dreams of Lord Dunshelm, and it's said that you rarely visit anyone's dreams."

"Would you like to pull a cracker?"

"Oh, no, no thank you, Sir."

The world swims around Callimpsest for a moment. His lucidity sharpens. He forbids himself from waking up.

"Merlin, my library..."

"Terribly sad. I regret that I was not able to help. I was needed in lands other than these. I forget exactly where. Or when."

"I, Sir, am one who can never forget. I was only ever needed here."

"And that is why I find you here. With your memory you have gone back. In the book of your mind you have turned back to an earlier page. Were you a dungeoneer, from a realm where time must move forward, this could not be. But you are not, and onward may be backward."

"I'm a little lost."

"Indeed you are. You want me to repeat it. Very well. 'With-'"

"May I request the abridged version?"

"Hmm, highly irregular, and not nearly as much fun, but if we must. In the Knightmare, as in the dream, there _is_turning back."

"I can return to a past event? With magic presumably?"

"Truth accep- I mean, that is so. But with great care."

"And if I return to the school, before the wretched explosion, I can stop the explosion! I can save the books!"

"Well, I really must be going."

"No! I mean... thank you. Please wait. I must know more. How do I get the magic?"

Merlin's reply is almost unintelligible.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that but without the mystical echo please?"

"Find the Tower of Time."

Callimpsest has heard of it. "But no dungeoneer could ever find it, even on your advice. They crossed the Dunswater and there was a keep instead."

The wind is whistling. Merlin is vanishing and will say no more.

"Thank you."

The school recedes. Callimpsest blinks, awaking to a bright morning.


	2. He Walks

Callimpsest walks through the village, pondering his dream of the night before. It would seem he has a quest ahead of him. He cannot conceive of anything he stands to lose by believing his vision; but he is no knight, and cannot see himself scouring the land for a building that may only have existed in the mind of one senilescent wizard.

His books aren't helping - and, being books, quite literally so. Some are refusing to open, and others quickly swing shut. Is it that he is asking too much of them, or that, in their wisdom, they are trying to protect him? The most obliging of his tomes is the _Iliad_, but it presents him with accounts of rashness, death and fate at its least mutable. Now more than ever, he needs inspiration and courage, and unable to find it on his bookshelf, he must try something else. Callimpsest has spent enough time around monks to appreciate their beliefs. He is heading for the village church. He hopes that a visit there will, at the very least, take him no further away from the answers he seeks.

It gives him answers before he is even through the door. And they come so strikingly that he has to steady himself against a passing old lady.

"...It cannot not be."

"Ooh but it can, my lad! If you wish to woo me further, I'll be in the Crazed Heifer at sundown!"

The old lady departs with a spring in her shuffle. Callimpsest doesn't notice. He is staring up.

At the church's clock tower.

The legend rings out in Callimpsest's head. A towering instrument of time, from a different time, imported by Merlin: how could this not be the object of his quest? Callimpsest rushes for the church - almost bumping into a seller of candles and crucifixes. Deciding that a candle could be needed, he requests one of the self-lighting variety and fumbles for a coin.

"Just a candle, my man?" asks the seller. "You were in a mighty haste to reach the church. One of my holy roods would serve you well. Made from the twin pines of the Dunn Hill, and used by everyone from Sister Lu-"

Callimpsest puts a hand up. "Where I'm going... I don't need roods."

The seller is left scratching his head with the coin (and, once no one's looking, other less salubrious areas). Within minutes, Callimpsest has found his way unnoticed into the tower. He climbs the narrow stairs until he sees a door set into the wall. He can't see a lock, but nor can he see a handle. He pushes the door, and something starts to happen.

"Oh no, no, please."

Something unwanted and really too familiar.

"Not NOW! Merlin, you-"

The Weeping Door, Doorson by name, begins to speak. "Oh no! Ah woe! To dusty death all will go. Tomorrow is to sorrow, and yesterday is no better!"

"Be quiet," snaps Callimpsest. "True or false, false or true, open up and let me through."

"I hear, I fear. Seventy truths will open me..."

Callimpsest clenches his fists and hops about. This is appalling. Then he remembers: he still has something from the Knightmare Boarding School, something all staff were given to help discipline disagreeable students. It's about time he used it.

"Spellcasting: T, R, U, T, H!"

Doorson fades. There is a small scraping sound. Callimpsest smiles. The spell should hold for a while - maybe even until he dispels it, given that the creature is already spellbound. As he pushes, the door opens with an awful noise. Shuddering at the awfulness of Doorson's creak, he ventures up the steps beyond.


	3. He Explores

He is surprised by what he doesn't find at the top. The back of the translucent clock face dominates the far wall, but Callimpsest had been expecting a room full of workings and mechanisms to support it. These are absent. Everything else - the desk, the crate, the stove and kettle - seems like miscellaneous paraphernalia by comparison. In this quiet space, Callimpest tugs his ear lobes, instructing his earbugs to work themselves looser. Trying to instil patience in himself, he starts to investigate. Touching the crate, he is taken aback by its temperature.

"Crate's hot!"

But if this indicates magic, it is encouraging. The crate seems to have '50th' scratched on one side, and contains an array of hourglasses. They must be failed experiments of Merlin's: the sands will not move.

Away from the crate, the room is cold. The stove has a little wood and some cups on the floor nearby. Remembering that he has a flask of water and some tea, Callimpsest decides that a drink will help him focus. He fills the kettle and lights the stove with his candle. The wood is hardly alight but the water seems to be boiling. As this happens, light fades from the room, emphasising the clock face. Callimpsest watches as rainbow vapour snakes from the kettle and curls around the clock. When it completes a thin circle, a shade passes across the face, like the phases of the moon.

"It runs on steam?"

Enthralled, Callimpsest can scarcely believe how much has happened since he was outside the church mere moments ag- he jumps back as the face changes colour. He has never seen a blue like this before, so deep and brilliant that it is as if he is looking straight through the realm itself, behind the world, beyond the edge of forever.

"I have found it."

The door creaks. No. He should've locked it. He gasps for air. They're coming to stop him. This cannot happen. He can't have this taken away from him. It isn't fair. He can't hide. He looks at the blue and knows it is the only way. He doesn't turn back. He steps in and he vanishes.

The time gate fades back to a clock face, giving the room back its light. The fire in the stove has gone out and the kettle has gone cold. All is as it was.

But only at first glance.

* * *

Callimpsest opens his eyes. He has a headache and earache but they are fading. His candle is still in his hand.

"'If your heels be nimble and light...'" he mumbles.

He is sitting against a wall, which he soon recognises as the back of the church. Did they catch him, try to wipe his memory and then eject him? Or has he turned back to an earlier page? He stands up and listens. He can hear a seller, the one he dealt with before entering the Tower, hawking his crucifixes from the lone pine of the Dunn Hill. Village life sounds louder than usual, but nothing looks different from the last time he saw it. In a place where progress is so painfully slow, how can he tell when he is?

He could try asking someone. The two closest at hand are Iain and Del. Not known for their intellects but maybe they'll come up with enough detail to help. Which to try first: Del or Iain? Brushing himself down, Callimpsest approaches.

"Hallo, Del."

"'Lo, mister," comes Del's reply.

"I've had a bump on the head and I'm a bit muddled. What date is this?"

Del looks pensive. No, make that vacant. Callimpsest turns to the other man.

"Iain, have you the date? The day of the week? The hour of the day, even?"

Iain answers. "Soon as I learn to read and count, I'll tell ya."

"Well, has anything special or unusual happened of late?"

"I got a new spoon," grins Del. "Only it's got points at the end."

"Sure it's your spoon?" questions Iain. "I saw you borrow it off Elizabeth-Anne."

"And she said she wants it back?"

"As I heard it, aye."

Del is lost for another moment in pseudo-pensiveness. "So... it's not my spoon."

Iain sighs. "No, LIBBY-ANNE'S!"

Callimpsest jumps. Exasperated and embarrassed, he leaves the men to their contrived banter and makes for the church entrance. If he didn't travel back, then his evictors will still be in the Tower, and he can explain, beg them for another chance, pay them. If he has travelled back, maybe there is an instrument in the Tower that can tell him more. Again he enters the Tower unnoticed and reaches the door. Finding it ajar, his heart pounds. He pushes it slowly, closing his eyes against the enduring horror of Doorson's creak, and creeps up the steps with his eyes still closed. He gulps as he nears the top.

No one is waiting for him. The room is as he first found it. Then he sees something on the floor. He closes in on the white shape. Picked up, it dances around his finger and crawls up his arm. His right earbug. If it was already here, he was already here. He was the one that almost caught him.

He did it.

"I did it! Yes I did! I'm having that tea now!" He looks at the kettle. "Oh, best not, not just yet."

Callimpsest realises how lucky he was: to have used the device with no idea how it works and to have returned, unharmed. He goes over to the desk, where sits a row of books, propped up by figurines of Saturn and Pluto. There should be instructions. But how can he be certain, when there should have been-

Clockwork.

He pulls out a slim volume, untitled, orange, densely embossed with cogs and gears. Stroking off dust and gently tapping on the cover, he opens it. The pages are blank. All blank. But the librarian won't be fooled. Special books have a right to do this sometimes. He shuts the book.

"I know you are hiding. You are entitled. Pardon the pun at your convenience. You need to safeguard the Tower from being misused, and yourself. Be not afraid. Please trust me and aid me. I need to journey back, to save many books. I need you." His voices refines itself to a whisper. "_Iamiam veritas, libelle._"

The clockwork animates itself. The orange hue begins to disappear from the cover, like the adding of milk to tea being played out in reverse. Soon Callimpsest is holding a grey almanac.

"Thank you."

Reopening the book, he finds the pages scattered with notes and diagrams. Some is illegible, some untranslatable, but Callimpsest proceeds to learn what he can. He discovers, among other things, that he must have set his destination by thought: before entering the time gate, he had contemplated _how much had happened since he was outside the church mere moments ago_, hence the device sending him there. He also finds out what the frozen hourglasses could be for. As daylight fades, he realises that he risks being caught leaving the Tower by evening worshippers if he lingers any longer. Slipping out, he retires to the Wolf's Howl Inn, where he continues poring over the almanac until sleep pours over him. He will awake ready for a most excellent misadventure.


	4. He Embarks

A day later and Callimpsest is back in the Tower of Time. He recalls seeing Dreslin clad in a habit some days ago, and wishes he'd tried asking for the outfit: it would have made moving stealthily around the church a lot easier. In truth, part of him hoped that the elf might accompany him and support him - but Dreslin was clearly in no state for that, and perhaps it is for the best not to share the secret with anyone.

Although there is more he could learn from the almanac, deciphering and translating could take days and Callimpsest is too impatient. However, there is plenty he has learned that he is putting into action. The water in the kettle has been carefully measured and purified to ensure a secure journey, free of travel sickness. He has also equipped himself with one of the egg-timers: it turns out that their purpose is to enable a return trip. Callimpsest has chosen one of the smaller timers: his plan is to make a successful journey to his desired time and place, observe and document for a short period, then return and prepare fully for a longer journey during which he will accomplish his mission and save the Boarding School library. He has yet to work out exactly how, but regards that as a minor detail the he will not worry about until he has to. He examines the timer: it is oddly designed with two upper chambers forming a Y-shape with the lower one. He assumes that the capacity of the flux will be magically regulated by the Tower: when one chamber is empty, he will know that his trip is half over. He looks up as the steam from the kettle activates the time gate, which is soon shining with its amazing blue. Callimpsest picks up his knapsack and takes a deep breath.

"I wish to return to a time after the Knightmare Boarding School was opened but before the explosion destroyed the library." He hesitates. Will the time gate read the details he hasn't spoken aloud? To reinforce his request, he adds, "When I was needed."

The frozen sand in the egg-timer glows blue for a moment, then begins to trickle down from one of the chambers. It is time. Like so many people before a journey, Callimpsest has a last-minute attack of packer's doubt. _It's too late to go to market now! _He lets the blue fill his vision and lungs and steps in.

A few seconds pass. Then Callimpsest falls back through the time gate into the room, his lifeless body hitting the floor. His knapsack spills open and the egg-timer slips from his hand, its sands frozen once more.

For Wolfenden and its time-travelling librarian respectively, nothing and everything has changed.


	5. He Arrives

Callimpsest's vision cleared. The light was hurting his eyes. And there were other eyes, staring into his. Terrified. He stepped back and caught his breath.

"W-what do you want?" came a voice.

He looked around. This was the marketplace. There were broken potion vessels across the ground and townsfolk were backing away from him. Did he do this? Did the time gate deliver him right into the middle of the market? Even if it did, should the villagers really be so shocked at seeing some appear out of thin air? Maybe something else happened and he'd merely arrived in the midst of it.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" repeated the voice.

He realised that the man who was in front of him was addressing him. One of the stallholders.

"I..."

The stallholder was shaking. "Tell me what you want from my stall and you may have it. Just don't eat me! Do you understand?"

Did he say "eat me"? No, it must have been "hurt me". Callimpsest couldn't be hearing properly. He reached up to coax his earbugs out his ears - but they weren't there. He didn't feel well. And his hands appeared to have swollen. He hadn't been expecting travel sickness like this.

Another man scurried over and cleared his throat. Callimpsest recognised him as Perkin Simnel, one of the old town apothecaries. This was definitely not the present day. Perkin held out a cup to him.

"Drink this. You will feel better."

Callimpsest tried to say thank you but was having trouble speaking. He took the cup. The frothy brown liquid inside smelt of mulled wine and sprouts. He raised the brew to his mouth and found himself downing it in one go. He started to feel less nauseous but his hands were still misshapen. And what had happened to this clothes? Had he changed history and somehow altered his attire? He handed the empty cup back to Perkin. The benevolent look in the apothecary's eyes disappeared.

"Now that you're better, begone. Or we shall make you."

With horror, Callimpsest saw the market traders picking up weapons, both makeshift and genuine. The stallholder next to him had been handed a shield and was hurriedly brushing Christmas decorations off it. In its polished surface, Callimpsest saw something even more horrifying. A face that wasn't is. Yet looked as shocked as he felt. And blinked when he blinked. A face that was becoming ever hairier and ruddier as Perkin's healing potion took effect. The face of Grimwold the ogre. Callimpsest collapsed to his knees.

"Eheu, puer!"

The townsfolk exchanged puzzled looks at this anguished Ogrish gibberish, until one of them piped up. "He's gone and learned some Latin. 'Alas, lad' that means. Probably wants his son. He knows Latin too."

The translation is correct but too literal. The sense that the displaced time-traveller had been going for was:

Oh boy.


	6. He Stares

Callimpsest stared around the marketplace. Face after angry face filled his vision. Not since he'd angered the imps had there been so many people threatening violence against him. 'Him' somehow not being him. He had to explain. But the harder he tried to talk, to make Grimwold's tongue work, the more nonsense tumbled out his mouth like regurgitated food. His reward for his efforts was a swell of jeering and laughter. He hung his head. This was a sad, strange destiny, like some cursed metamorphosis imposed by an Olympian god on a sinful mortal: perhaps the Tower of Time was never meant for him and now he was being punished. But he wasn't so important anyway. It was the School Library that mattered. And-

-This was still the past. He could still stop the school from being blown apart. Could he go to the school himself? No, damn it, not looking like this. He would have to tell the townsfolk so they could stop it for him. And even if he couldn't speak of it, he could tell them in another way. He turned towards a stall with writing implements on, and pointed.

Unfortunately, it belonged to Francis, the stallholder that he/Grimwold had so recently assaulted. Francis' eyes widened, raising his eyebrows almost as fast as his shield.

"Oh 'eck! I'm back on the menu!" wailed Francis. "Get me more armour, QUICK!"

A breastplate was passed across the marketplace and handed to Francis. He tried to work out a way of putting it on without lowering the shield while Callimpsest looked on silently. In the end, Francis threw both items on the floor and sobbed in despair. "That breastplate's all dented and it's got holes in it! And the straps are really fiddly! Are you trying to get me killed?"

From further up the marketplace, the originator of the breastplate, fledgling trader Oliver Scaramonger, replied, "Calm yourself, Francis of-" He stopped himself from letting slip the man's secret nickname. "-My good fellow. You'd be quite safe against an ogre in that."

Callimpsest rather suspected that the young Scaramonger was not likely to give decent stock to someone who could be dead before he could pay for it. But of course Callimpsest couldn't say so. He wondered for a moment how much brute strength was at his disposal in this new body.

"Then why is it in such shoddy condition?" Franics cried. "Couldn't you have warned me? Look at the state I'm in now. How am I meant to sleep tonight, if I even survive the day?"

Perkin sighed. Francis of a Sissy had earned his nickname once again, and little short of a personality transformation would banish it. "That's not Scaramonger's fault. Some hooded madman walked into the market not more than an hour ago and started bashing the breastplate up, then walked off, calm as you like."

Others in the crowd corroborated this tale, adding how tall the stranger was and how he'd been seen heading in the direction of the Rocks of Bruin. This wasn't an incident Callimpsest had heard about at the time: he'd paid little attention to goings-on beyond the school gatess. He peered at the breastplate on the ground. It depicted some less-than-perfect renderings of selected adventures of Heracles, or Hercules as so many called him. Two sections had borne the brunt of the earlier battering and were particularly hard to identify, but an erudite mind like Callimpsest's was up to the task no matter what body was housing it. That image was Heracles sacking Troy, generations before the wooden horse; and that image was Heracles battling the... well it looked like the maker of the breastplate had combined several of the monsters Heracles encountered into one for reasons of space. Still, it was nice to know that some creativity was making it onto the battlefield. Callimpsest became aware of Perkin stepping closer to him.

"...And you can pick out whatever victims you like, but if you raise a fat hand against anyone here, you will bloody - and I mean bloody - regret it. So in case you forgot: leave or we will make you."

Callimpsest shook his head. He held one of Grimwold's hands out flat and waved a finger over it, then looked back toward Francis' stall. The crowd realised what he was getting at, even if they couldn't quite believe it.

"Go on, Francis, give him what he wants," ordered Perkin. "He can't kill anyone with it."

Francis passed some stationery to Perkin, who dropped it in front of Callimpsest. As he tried to decide which hand to use to pick up the crayon, he remembered a story about Grimwold killing a dungeoneer for lack of one, and felt sure that he was being taunted. But if he got his message across then it was all worth it. With the townsfolks' waning patience there was no time for a written account, if writing was even possible in his current state: but he was confident that even an ogre had an inner artist. Deciding that Grimwold was a left-hander, Callimpsest got to work. It was a struggle to get the ogre's hand to follow his wishes, but he got there, and proudly held up the parchment for the onlookers to look upon.

The reaction he got would have made Motley green with envy. Buckling knees gave way to tears. Never were so many St. Audrey's lace handkerchiefs shifted in a single trading day.

Callimpsest was distraught. He'd drawn the school, he'd drawn the explosion, he'd even drawn a line of suns and moons to show the passage of time up to the catastrophe. Alright, so it wasn't a Parthenon frieze, but surely these halfwits could see that he was trying to tell them something important? The best library in the land was going to be blasted for no blasted reason while they stood around laughing themselves silly. Bullies! He felt a fury surging within. He closed Grimwold's fingers into a fist, the easiest function he'd yet performed with them; he opened his mouth to roar - then closed it again. The fury was more than Callimpsest's alone. He had to control it. He took deep breaths and waited for the laughter to subside.

Perkin spoke again. "Very well, maybe you aren't such an animal. More of an overgrown child. But you're still not welcome here. Leave us: I won't tell you again. And if you see any furry toadstools sitting in troughs and blowing bubbles," he snorted, "be sure to show them your picture!"

As the laughter began again, Callimpsest stood up, still holding the crayon and parchment. As he patted Grimwold's clothing in search of pockets, there came the sickening but unsurprised awareness that the timer he needed to return to the present day had not made the journey with him. At Grimwold's belt he found a coinpurse with a few clinking inhabitants. He thought about paying towards the damage to the marketplace - but no, sod them, he'd already paid them in dignity. He needed to forget about them and think through what had happened. Trudging away from his fickle audience, Callimpsest/Grimwold - henceforth known as Callimwold - headed for the one place in Wolfenden where an ogre would be tolerated.


	7. Look After You Leap

Callimwold bowed his head in gratitude at Lanesra as she brought him his second ale. He was pleased to note the surprise on her face at his display of courtesy, and watched as she hastened over to fellow barmaid Slevela to tell her about it. The first drink had disappeared down his throat in a trice and he was determined to make its successor last longer. Grimwold had been raging inside their head for attention, causing a splitting headache - not literally, to Callimpsest's chagrin - but the alcohol seemed to have remedied that, making Callimpsest the zookeeper to a tranquilised beast in a cage. This helped, as did the accommodating atmosphere of the tavern. While all the other Crazed Heifer patrons this day were human, an ogre was neither remarkable nor unwelcome here, and even the rowdiest drinkers showed no inclination towards bothering him. Within this living nightmare of a cross-time mission of mercy gone dreadfully and indefinitely wrong, within a body that was barely his to command and sported enough hair to make a satyr feel nude, Callimwold could almost relax. He swilled the ale around his mouth, savouring its uncustomary lack of bitterness, and letting fragments of conversation from neighbouring tables drift to his.

"Have you seen all the strange folk wandering into town from the school? Interesting times ahead..."

"...Coming onto _my_ turf, smashing up _my _tools..."

"Ice Killer? Never 'eard of 'im."

"Sorry, Patrick, I don't lie after eight beers, and I tell you your bald patch is twice the size it was last week."

"Akash the Headache Healer? Never 'eard of 'im."

Callimwold dragged his mind back to his own situation. He had noticed a quite decent line drawing, or tattoo possibly, of a fish head on his arm: if Grimwold could draw that well, then what had gone wrong with the sketch in the marketplace? Never mind that. How had his time journey gone so awry? He'd prepared properly, hadn't he? And he'd clearly stated where he wanted to go. No, wait, he hadn't.

'I wish to return to a time after the Knightmare Boarding School was opened but before the explosion destroyed the library.'

It was time he'd specified, not place. And as far as he could tell, the time was right. So what had sent him to... his palm hair brushed his face as he recalled his final thought before entering the time gate:

_It's too late to go to market now!_

Damn and blast. If only he'd kept the school and only the school at the front of his mind. What a price to pay for a moment of mental indiscipline. His thoughts returned to the idea that he was being punished for his careless use of the Tower of Time. It was certainly a delicate mistress. And a demanding one. Not to mention - Callimwold sniffed with laughter at the unintended wordplay - temperamental.

It seemed reasonable to assume, then, that the Tower had its own sensitivities, its own will, and had exerted some control over his trip. Was it necessarily punishment though? _I'm a good man: how can a perennial victim be anything else? And if the Tower wanted to punish me, why not simply prevent me from time travelling at all?_ Callimwold mentally replayed his departure through the time gate, and it was then that he remembered what he had said in full:

'I wish to return to a time after the Knightmare Boarding School was opened but before the explosion destroyed the library ... When I was needed.'

Could it be that Callimpsest was here, in this re-embodied form that he could never have foreseen, because there was something the Tower needed him to do? Something unrelated to the explosion at the school? And if so, how in the Underworld was he supposed to find out what it was? He couldn't ask anyone and he doubted he could so much as open a book without tearing the cover off.

Callimwold closed his eyes. Although he found the tavern noise - the battery of chatter, the clanking of tankards on tabletops - more bearable than usual, he missed the melodies of the piper. The closest thing he had to musical accompaniment was the rumbling in his stomach: a sound he was trying to ignore, because he dreaded to think what it would take to satisfy a full-blooded ogre's hunger. Ambling through the dark behind his eyelids, he wandered past the various conversations in the room and chose one to loiter by.

"Weren't you listening?" asked Doake. "I told you the whole story."

"You carried on talking while I was outside round the back," Clagger pointed out. You must expect there to be some gaps in my understanding. You say you were tending your field."

"The lower field, Clagger, yes."

"Ah, the one with the drainage problem?"

"Right. I hoped that dethatching the soil would help."

Callimwold recalled a conversation long ago at the Knightmare Boarding School (though not as long ago as it used to be), between two of the teachers, Malefact and Thanatos, about how best to dethatch the croquet lawn. Callimwold could remember no details - only that Thanatos kept referring to the process as scarifying, which was a legitimate synonym, and Malefact kept mispronouncing his colleague's name.

"And that was when you received the trespasser?" inquired Clagger.

Doake nodded. "Over he came, slow as Nigel, just to annoy me."

Clagger sneezed. Doake paused while he wondered if he should say something about it. He did. "You just sneezed."

"Yes I did." Long pause. "Crying out for a post-Classical superstition, isn't it?"

"Oh absolutely."

"Anyway, I'm well again, so continue."

Doake resumed. "So he's come right over, me shouting at him all the way to scram, then he's stood right by me, damn hood stopping me seeing his face. He didn't say a word, he just stood there. I say, 'Can't you see, you're on my field, interfering with my dethatching, so state your business or begone so's I can dethatch my territory in peace.'"

"You'd think," commented Clagger, "someone would come up with a nice succinct phrase, four words at the most, which impatient country bumpkins could use to tell strangers to get off their land. Something like... oh I don't know. We should put our heads together and coin one. Talking of which, next round's coming from your purse."

"Hang on a moment: what's a bumpkin?"

"I'll explain later. So at this point did the man leave?"

"Oh alas not," Doake replied. "I repeated myself several times, changing the words each time to show my intellectical dominiance, and then..." He swigged his ale. "Then the bastard knight twisted up my dethatcher in his gauntleted hands like it was a ribbon and kicked up my soil with his dirty great boots, just for the Hades of it! And only then did he take his leave."

"Ah yes, I remember that part. A veritable outrage, Doake. But you didn't mention he was a knight."

"Well he was wearing a full suit of armour under his cape. I'm sure of it. Clank-clank-clanking he was."

"A veritable clanker. But that's the aristocracy for you. Put a 'Sir' before their names and they think they can do as they wish."

"And while we're on the subject: radishes."

"We weren't on the-"

"Why in the Underworld do radishes insist on-"

Callimwold was thinking about the violent stranger. Surely he was the same man who battered Scaramonger's breastplate? But what man would act so peculiarly and with such vim? It sounded more like an ogre's behaviour. No: with an ogre sitting so close by, Doake would have remarked on it. As would the market folk. And an ogre could never be so disciplined in its attacks, so... mechanical.

The Dungeon had its own mechanical warrior, the Automatum. Although it was also mindless, and the attacks sounded far from that. What about the Behemoth then, who walked about wordlessly in full armour? Callimwold was sure he once heard that Merlin disassembled the Behemoth in preparation for a Christmas jigsaw session that never was. Could the Opposition have put it back together? There again, why would Lord Fear need the Behemoth when he had the-

Dreadnort. Callimwold put a hand to his chest: he'd never felt a heart beat so hard. The more he thought about the Dreadnort, the more it fitted: the slowness, the violence, the specific objectives, not to mention the rumours that after its decommissioning it had reactivated itself and wandered out of Marblehead. What else? Callimwold gripped the table as he tried to call up Callimpsest's factual knowledge. He'd cast an eye over the _Lexicon _entry on the Dreadnort just hours earlier (and years later) while Shadow read the one on dragons. And he'd read the entry many times previously on solitary starless nights. Active during the Sixth Phase of Adventuring. One victim. Several encounters in which five other dungeoneers were spared. Because they gave the Dreadnort a password. Words like... passport. No, that was a blocker. Words like... like...

Breastplate! Callimwold opened his eyes. He grabbed his tankard and gulped the ale away, evincing none of the drainage problems of Doake's lower field. _Breastplate._ (Team 5.) There was no way that was a coincidence. There were more words, and he knew that he knew them. Wait, the breastplate attack was focused on the engraving of Heracles invading Troy. Striking at the fortified city. Striking or... _storming_. (Team 4.) And there was another image that was wrecked, the one with the amalgamated monst- _monstrous_. (Team 1.) Callimwold felt like punching something, and luckily it was just the air. There was no doubting the pattern of the attacks. And so it followed that the violence against Doake's turf was a swipe at his _territory_ (Team 6) and at the tool he was using to _scarify_it (Team 3). Five words, five teams.

Callimwold exhaled and looked over at the barmaids, as if expecting them to applaud his triumph. Rather irritatingly, his headache was coming back, and he knew it was coming from his ogre constituent. Perhaps it was jealous. How sad. There was more he could have recalled about the Dreadnort, but now that the mystery was solved it didn't matter. He pictured the rogue automaton completing its attack in the marketplace and trudging off towards Bruin. He felt a sharp twinge in his head. What did it expect to find out among the rocks, if anything? It had crossed off all its words.

No it hadn't. It had marked off five words from five dungeoneers. One dungeoneer (Team 6) met it twice. There was one more password.

And he remembered what that password was. And his belly forgot its hunger pangs amidst the knots. And he remembered the ogre family that had set up home in Bruin. And the beast in his mind was screaming through the bars of the cage. And he knew that although the merciless metallic murderer would find one _Grimwold_not at home, it was all too possible that it would find that another was. And-

A few seconds later and Callimwold was gone, leaving no evidence that he had ever set foot in the Crazed Heifer. Aside from the upturned future, the puzzled drinkers, the startled serving wenches and the ogre-shaped hole in the unopened door.


	8. Journey's End?

Callimwold's collective mind was blurred like the bushes and trees that were rushing past him. His pounding feet and pounding heart driving him forward to where he was needed. He had lost track of how far he had come, how much damage he may have done on the way (he was not sure if his memory of crashing into an Opposition minion is imaginary or not, nor how long it was since he had left the Crazed Heifer. But time didn't matter now: there was only arriving soon enough or arriving too late. Callimpsest had never known what it was like to run like this before. So fast; towards danger.

He wasn't sure what came first: the sight of the house or the sound of the scream. There was no doubt that it was an ogre's scream, yet there was no rage in it. Only pain and fear. One part of Callimwold urged him to scream back; another part urged him to approach with stealth. All they could agree on was that he absolutely must keep running. The metallic taste in his parched mouth reminded him of exactly why.

Here was the house. Here was the door. And there was the librarian's friend and the ogre's son, pinned against the far wall by a technomagical warrior with no other purpose in its deranged head than to eliminate that which was called Grimwold.

After so many years travelling, voyaging, running away, Young Grimwold could not move. All the pain of his existence, the shame of the memories that he couldn't make not matter, the horror of the reflection that would ambush him day upon day, had been drawn into his shoulders as the Dreadnort tore at his arms. And he didn't know who this being was, nor why it was hell-bent on killing him, but YG too had his word: One word, one thought, bludgeoning all the uncertainties into insignificance. _Good._

Callimpsest and Grimwold both knew what they were seeing. Young Grimwold was giving up.

_He needs us._

Reasoning with the Dreadnort seemed a doubly impossible course of inaction, but Callimwold resolved to use his head one way or another. He lowered it and he charged.

Young Grimwold, jarred by an almighty clang, stared in shock as his father staggered away from his mother's cauldron, which was now adorned with a new dent. To expect both speed and direction from a charging ogre was apparently to expect too much. Callimwold managed a few steps before dizziness got the better of him and toppled him over, throwing up dust into a shaft of sunlight.

This 'am ram' performance had not gone unheard by the Dreadnort. It sensed that this was relevant to its endeavour and that it was necessary to gather further, visual information. But it had not been designed to process two targets at once. It would have to refocus. With a creaking that made fingernails on a blackboard sound like a harp, the Dreadnort's head rotated until the newcomer was within its field of vision.

Callimwold's eyes were fixed on the Dreadnort, but his pain-peppered head was swimming and he was sinking into a blurry malaise. _Stay. Conscious._ He couldn't stand up. He lifted a trembling arm in Dreadnort's direction - and beckoned. And, while not built for rhetoric, Dreadnort's addled technomagical substitute for a mind presented a rhetorical question. _Why target a resistant, impure Grimwold when I can have a semiconscious, non-resistant, pure Grimwold instead? _Callimwold's eyelids flickered and his head slumped to the floor as the creaking resumed.


	9. Leave Grimwold Alone

Young Grimwold gasped with relief as the Dreadnort released its grip on his arms. He wanted to sob but he stopped himself. He watched as the Dreadnort shuffled and stamped what passed for its feet, manoeuvring itself with agonising slowness. _Normally people are a lot quicker to turn away from me. If I didn't know better, I'd say he - it, she - was relishing this._

It was only when the creature was facing his father across the room did YG realise its new purpose. It took a step.

"No..."

Then another. His father did not move. YG was too winded to shout.

"No, no! Stop!" YG reached for his club, forced from his hand when the Dreadnort had first attacked him. His fingers closed around it... and he winced. His arms were too weak to pick it up, let alone wield it. Growling, he grabbed a lighter object that had been knocked from a shelf and stumbled after the Dreadnort. "No! Halt! Leave him alone!" YG gritted his teeth and swung his new weapon at the beast.

The Dreadnort stopped. Even for a merciless armoured automaton, being struck with a wooden spoon is a trifle distracting.

YG hit it again. It wasn't turning back. And it wasn't speaking, even though it had said his name earlier and kindly notified him of its intent to amputate. He would not be ignored by someone that wasn't even a proper someone. He would make it listen to him. Because if he couldn't even lift a club, then words were all he had to stop this pyre of poison from wrecking his life. He took a deep breath.

"How dare anyone threaten my father after all he's been through? He loves his family, he got stabbed by an elf, he has a ridiculous son, his wife turned out to be a harridan and a schemer and now he's going through a concussion battle. All you care about is... pulling limbs off us. He's a PERSON!" He wiped his eye and smacked the Dreadnort. "What you don't realise is that he's saving Wolfenden all this money, killing wolves before they can slay the livestock and the townsfolk, and all they do is talk a heap of manure about him! He hasn't killed a human in years. He roars for a reason because that's how he feels: raw raw raw raw RAW! LEAVE HIM ALONE!" He whacked the impassive metal back again. "Treguard's lucky he even performed for the Dungeon. LEAVE DADDY ALONE! Please!" YG's legs were buckling. Every impassioned word, every passionless hit of the spoon, felt as worthless and futile as anything he'd ever done. And soon - he smeared more tears across his face - soon he'd have to choose whether to watch his father being maimed or look away like the useless coward he is. And his father, a man who knew little other than fighting, would be unable to fight back. "LEAVE DADDY ALONE! Plea-hease! Leave my father alone right NOW! I mean it. You deal with me because he's not well right now."

The Dreadnort started walking again. Behind him, an ogre was on his knees weeping, drying his eyes on the hooded cloak that the Dreadnort had earlier discarded.

"Leave him alone... He's a better man than you anyway... A better thing... you second-rate Talos."

Although Young Grimwold hadn't had much luck with his spoon, Callimwold had stirred. It takes a lot to knock an ogre out, especially one with the strength of two minds beneath the skull. But Callimwold still could not move. From the sounds and shapes of which he was vaguely aware, he discerned what was happening. Soon the Dreadnort would be upon him, and he was not numb enough for it not to hurt. He sought to comfort himself by recollecting a favourite aroma, and thought of... rotting meat? Please, Grimwold! He summoned one for Callimpsest: new books. But from that came thoughts of the school library, of crushing bitterness, and he had to dismiss those. He thought instead of Young Grimwold, who would go on. Damaged, perhaps, but wiser and tougher.

Resolving if he possibly could to go out with a roar, Callimwold waited.

Young Grimwold, meanwhile, was considering what he had blurted out. The artificial atrocity had reminded him of Talos, the giant man of metal who was said to patrol the isle of Crete in the time of the Argonauts. Forged by Hephaestus the blacksmith god and mighty enough to throw boulders to ward off unwanted visitors (or more likely smash them to pieces), Talos himself was impervious to the weapons of men, even a hunter's pike. But he did have a weakness, and one that would have entitled him to sue Achilles for copyright infringement: an exposed vein on his heel containing a stopper. When the Argonauts removed this stopper, Talos' lifeblood leaked out of him and he was defeated. Perhaps, just perhaps, this successor to Talos had the same thing.

Young Grimwold crawled as stealthily as he could behind the Dreadnort, attempting to discern a weak spot. It was all too quickly evident that there was none. The foul creature was plated with metal from head to foot. YG started to feel sick. What now? Kneeling here behind this monster like a scorned supplicant, the only wretched advantage YG seemed to have over it was that he could bend both legs.

A plan started to form in YG's head. He needed time, just a bit more time. He'd never get the creature to stop and listen to him again. He had to try something else. As the upper and lower portions of the automaton's left leg separated, YG shoved the spoon in the gap.

As the Dreadnort straightened its leg, there was a splintering sound. The Dreadnort halted, contemplating why it might have emitted such a noise from an appendage. It couldn't bend over to investigate. It would have to proceed and assess any damage at a later time. It also registered a series of rustling sounds that it attributed to the half-Grimwold. That too would be investigated in due course. But first there was a full Grimwold to neutralise. And if the ogre would not put itself within reach of the Dreadnort's arms, it would just have to amputate using the force of its feet.

Callimwold was regaining his senses, but still felt too dazed to mount an adequate defence against the imminent attack. The Dreadnort was but a stride away from him now: he could feel its unnatural aura and the cold maw groaning his dirge in its vacuous chest. He glimpsed Young Grimwold shuffling behind it, his arms still too weakened to wield his club, and thought of the guilt and sadness that would descend upon him in mere minutes. He hoped there would not be too much blood for YG to witness.

Then Callimwold saw a flurry of movement, heard a crack, and watched as the Dreadnort froze, trying to comprehend the concept of noisy wooden cutlery turning up in its ridiculous leg. If things of technomagic were one day to rule the world, they had a long way to go. But what Callimwold saw next was far more encouraging: a pair of ogre's hands, with a deftness learned at sea under Captain Nemanor, firmly knotting a cloak around the Dreadnort's legs.

The Dreadnort refocussed its attention on the full Grimwold - unable to stand yet twisting his fat frame around with little more grace than a landed fish in its death throes - and took a step. The step took the Dreadnort toppling forward. YG gasped: the thing was going to crush his father.

Callimwold had turned his body around just in time. As the Dreadnort toppled toward him, its legs incapacitated, he willed his own legs - legs that had tirelessly pounded passage after vale after dale after tunnel - to remember their strength and he thrust them upwards.

Hearing his father's roar, Young Grimwold rolled to the side as the metal monster swung backward and smashed against the floor. Even if its legs weren't bound, it would probably still struggle to know how to right itself. And its two adversaries - one more than it was ever designed to handle at any one time - were unlikely to give it a chance.

Callimwold had retrieved his club and was approaching, a little unsteadily. He looked down at the Dreadnort, not at all wistfully. The futile twitching of the malfunctioning automaton's arms against the ground sounded almost like a drumroll. The crash of Grimwold's club against its torso sounded like cymbals.

"Good afternoon, father. You seem much better."


	10. Defeat

With the exception of the odd prolonged wrestling bout, ogres do not tend to hug. But never before had two ogres wanted to so much as now. Instead they settled for an alternative means of further bonding: hitting stuff together. As Callimwold's headache eased and YG's arms regained their strength, they clubbed harder and harder. Then YG looked up and saw his father holding out his club. This abrupt lack of intellect did not surprise him, and for once did not embarrass him either.

"N-no, I already have a club, I've been using it." Then he realised. Soon YG stood, a club in each hand, regarding the Dreadnort. He thought about all that it had sought to take from him. And with a roar, he swung the clubs down, his mindful strikes carrying many times the force that his mindless ones had. He handed back Grimwold's club.

"Thank you."

Between the ogres, the Dreadnort was rasping still. It seemed that they had only inflicted superficial damage on it.

"Perhaps removing the head would..."

But despite Callimwold's best efforts, his grip was not strong enough to detach the Dreadnort's headpiece. He and Young Grimwold had battered the automaton extensively, yet not into submission, and he worried that they failed to deactivate it soon, this creature of technomagic might repair itself and renew its attack. Though given the deceptively simple nature of its structure, perhaps the head could be forced from the body by other means. Callimwold fetched a stool, positioned it next to the Dreadnort and stood on it. He looked at Young Grimwold -

-Who saw his father crouching slightly and understood. It had been a long time since a smile had stretched his face quite this much. He laughed. He felt... like singing. "We are the Dungeon ogres, Grim-W-O-L-D!"

And with that, Callimwold - never having dreamt he could have so much fun without an Aristophanes manuscript, claret and candlelight - leapt from the stool and smacked down onto the Dreadnort. With a burp-like noise, its head shot off and embedded itself in the far wall. Callimwold rolled onto the floor. Dust settled. And no one would live or die in fear of the Dreadnort ever again.

YG inspected his father. There was no blood and he appeared to be handling the pain. However, he had come back from market without fish, in spite of Mrs Grimwold drawing it on his arm to remind him, so he had further pain to come. YG looked over at the crumpled remains of the Dreadnort and imagined how he would dismember and bury them. As he watched, something slid with a pop from the hole where the head had been. YG carried it over to his father.

Raising his head, Callimwold peered at the warm glass jar and the white smoke swirling within. He recalled how Pandora's box was actually, as a more accurate translation of the Ancient Greek would have it, a jar. Now, as in the myth, there was only one thing to do: a foolhardy thing after all that had just happened, but that didn't matter to Callimwold, for he had never felt more hardy. Knowing that YG would be having the same thought, he nodded his approval, then rested his head back on the floor. The sealed jar, however, appeared to have no lid.

YG removed the cloak from the Dreadnort's legs and wrapped the jar in it. Kneeling, he tapped it with his club, then again, and heard the glass shatter. Wisps of smoke snuck from under the cloak and lost themselves harmlessly in the air. And yet the smoke seemed to be heavy enough to be moving the cloak. Or was there something else? YG pulled back the dark fabric.

And a pixie named Pixel flew out.


	11. Ogre And Out

YG's eyes followed the liberated pixie as she whizzed about the house. She flitted above the Dreadnort's carcass and then hovered in front of YG's face, a little too close for comfort. She began to chatter at a feverish pace.

"Erm... might you just..."

Her high-pitched wittering was fast becoming a greater threat to YG's wellbeing that the Dreadnort had been.

"P-please would you..."

She wouldn't stop. YG's fingers were tightening around his club. "I CAN'T UNDERSTAND A WORD OF WHAT YOU'RE SAYING!"

Once Pixel got over this affront - from a talking ogre no less - she repeated herself, intelligibly. She explained to YG and Callimwold how she had been kidnapped by Lord Fear and imprisoned in the Dreadnort to form its power source. Her gratitude to YG for freeing her was such that she offered to grant him any request. "But nothin' ridiculous, nothin' that a pixie can't do. And then I'm shovin' off."

_That would suffice, _thought Young Grimwold. Then he thought some more. "I have a friend, a man known as Callimachus of the Palimpsest. He is learned and kind, and just recently became the librarian at the Knightmare Boarding School - but he lives in terror of imps. Somehow, I know not how, they misread 'Callimpsest' - that's how he's usually known - as 'Call Imps East', got the idea that they should migrate eastwards en masse, wasted a lot of energy and time and then swore revenge on him for their mistake. Please tell the imps to leave Callimpsest be."

"Alright. I'll get the pixies to sort the imps out and make sure they never trouble your friend again. My word of honour."

Out of modesty, YG decided not to tell Callimpsest what he'd done for him. As the librarian settled into life at the school, YG wasn't sure he would see him again anyway.

As Pixel flew out into Bruin, hoping never again to see a pixie-sized container of any sort, she noticed that the other ogre had tears in his eyes. She thought what a strange pair they were and disappeared beyond the rocks.

Callimwold was beginning to feel extremely drowsy. Nervous as he was about falling asleep only to wake up in an ogre's body, slumber had become irresistible. He called out to YG and, as his dear son and dear friend approached, found something in his pocket from earlier and held it out for the young man to take.

Young Grimwold cradled the crayon. He wanted to sob, just a little, just a lot.

"I..." A sigh. "I appreciate you, father."

Mr. Grimwold was asleep.

* * *

_The Present_

Callimpsest opens his eyes. The air is still, as are the sands in the egg-timer that is lying in front of him. He feels numbness subsiding and taps his fingers - and they are his fingers, with neatly dressed paper cuts in place of grubby callouses. He raises his head to the clockface, through which a new day, the present day, is dawning. Callimpsest speaks aloud, relishing the sound of his own voice even more than usual.

"Well, I believe I have earned my spurs of squiredom. I hope I am now worthy of pursuing my own que..ehh..."

Callimpsest is yawning. He is eager to return to his room, to decrypt the almanac's remaining secrets, to snap his imp net in two - for which, if he is not strong enough, he would gladly employ an ogre friend of his. But here and now, he is too exhausted. In defiance of an unusually rowdy town and an uncomfortable floor, Callimpsest soon falls asleep.

* * *

_The Past_

YG set about tidying the room, not noticing the blue haze that briefly enveloped his father between one snore and the next. When all trace of the Dreadnort's incursion had been removed - except for the newest dent in the cauldron, which YG had turned around in the hope that his mother wouldn't notice it - YG lay on his bed and pondered. And as the days went by, he continued to ponder, sometimes on parchment. (He wrote in Latin, in case his mother should pry.) He still ached, more deeply than anyone knew, and he still wanted so much to hide. But what he had seen his father do - for him, with him - within these walls had given him optimism. And it was time to take that optimism and see whether, just maybe, it could grow legs (perhaps arms, maybe even a head) beyond these walls.

YG got off his bed, grabbed his club and his coin purse, fought a moment's trepidation and headed out toward the town. All manner of misfit creatures shared Wolfenden's streets: at least one of them would be willing to share a drink with an ogre.


End file.
